


Behold the Beast, Behold the Lamb

by monicawoe, quickreaver



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels are Dicks (Supernatural), Art, Blasphemy, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Book of Revelation, F/M, Gen, Illustrations, Sam Winchester on Demon Blood, Season 4 AU, Torture, Torturer Dean Winchester, Transformation, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:41:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27191204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/pseuds/monicawoe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/quickreaver/pseuds/quickreaver
Summary: Season 4 AU.  Sam tried to free Dean from Hell, but angels intervened and took Dean for their own purposes. Sam is determined to get Dean back and will do whatever it takes, embracing his abilities fully. The more demon blood Sam drinks, the more demons he kills, the more he changes inside and out until it's impossible to hide his monstrous side. Ruby, Uriel and Castiel push Sam to fulfill his destiny and become his true self—the Beast of the Revelation.words by monicawoe; art by quickreaver
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Ruby/Sam Winchester
Comments: 27
Kudos: 62
Collections: Supernatural Eldritch Bang





	Behold the Beast, Behold the Lamb

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2020 SPN Eldritch Bang event  
> Big thanks to my beta wetsammywinchester !

**_13:12 the earth and its inhabitants worship the beast, whose fatal wound had been healed_ **

In his dreams, Sam was burning—skin broiling and blistering as he clawed his way down down down, looking for Dean. He could hear his brother’s voice, hear him calling his name over and over until the words devolved into pained howls. Sam was burning, drowning in magma and acid but he didn’t care. Guilt and sorrow hung leaden around him dragging him further down, far as he needed to go. His flesh was charred down to the bone by the time he reached the jagged rock floor at the very bottom. There was a door before him and all he had to do was open it and then he’d find Dean and he’d free him and everything would be okay again.

He reached for the door—heavy wrought iron with an ornate symbol that glowed at his touch—the curving lines of it swam when he looked at it, evasive the way the written word always is in dreams. He spoke in a tongue he knew but didn’t, in a voice that made the walls around him tremble and the molten lava freeze, and then reached out to touch the door. The iron hurt, searing his veins, but it didn’t matter, he was numb to pain by now and he was so close, he was here, he was—

“Morning,” Ruby said, kissing Sam’s shoulder, rousing him from his dream.Her touch was cold, it always was in the morning when she came back to lie with him after doing whatever it was she did while he slept. Sam grabbed weakly for her small, cool hand and wrapped it in his, sharing his heat. She pressed herself more tightly against him asking, “Bad dreams?”

Sam didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. She knew him well enough after these long months together. She knew what he dreamt about every night. He’d numbed it before, with drink and pills and anything else he could get his hands on before she came back into his life with the promise of vengeance and liquid power.

He turned onto his stomach, not quite ready yet to face the day, but didn’t let go of her hand, dragging her arm partly with him. She huffed a soft laugh into his skin, slipped out of his grip just enough to bring her hand down lower, tracing her fingers down his spine, along the network of darkening veins that had grown like tree branches across his back and hips, pausing at the scar on his lower back. He’d had it since he died at Cold Oak. Since his resurrection, anyway, which Dean had paid for with his own life. Sam didn’t like being reminded of it and twitched away from Ruby just enough that her hand stilled.

“Sorry,” she said.

“S’okay,” he mumbled into the musty motel pillow.

“Not a lot of people have a sigil on their back, you know.”

That got his attention. He pushed up on his elbows, turning to look at her. “A sigil?” He’d thought the same thing when he’d first seen it, his knife wound scar that looked like anything but. He’d shown Dean, but he’d blown it off, and Sam hadn’t been able to find a sigil quite like it in any book. Even Bobby had shrugged helplessly at him. Plus, Sam’d had other, far more pressing priorities. Like getting Dean out of his deal.

Ruby nodded at him.

“Whose sigil?”

Ruby scoffed. “You don’t know?”

Sam shook his head and could tell from the look on her face that he’d hate the answer.

“Azazel,” she said, confirming his worst fear. “Makes sense, he’s the one that brought you back.”

“And fed me his blood,” Sam said bitterly. He chewed on his lip for a moment, the phantom taste of Ruby’s blood from last night still lingering. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You never asked,” Ruby said simply, sitting up.

“We looked,” Sam said, turning to face her, “after Dean—“ _brought me back, He should’ve left me down there, he should’ve—_ “but we couldn’t find anything.”

“It’s written in Hellscript, for lack of a better word,” Ruby said, reading his mind, maybe literally, maybe not. “Old; older than books, older than anything you’ll find up here.”

Sam nodded at her and tried to ignore the way the scar—the sigil tingled like it knew they were talking about it.

Ruby swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. “Coffee?”

Sam grunted in agreement and headed for the shower. Ruby stopped him, her fingers brushing his waist. He turned towards her, taken again by those big brown eyes that looked so deceptively human.

“Don’t give up, okay?” she said. “I’ve got a good feeling about today. Something’ll turn up.”

“We’ve been looking for Lilith for months,” Sam said, the words heavy on his tongue. After four months of failing to free Dean, he’d lost hope again, and Ruby had dragged him back out of the bottle with a promise of revenge. The dead pit in his gut was still there though, the failure, the guilt gnawing at him every hour of every day. But going after Lilith took his mind off things for a little while. And even though he wouldn’t give light to it, a tiny part of him still hoped that when they _did_ find Lilith he could get Dean out by forcing her hand. Months too late, but he had to try.

“You’ve just… gotta have faith,” Ruby said with a gentle smile.

Sam huffed, tamping down the small spark of fury that word brought with it. “I lost faith the day Dean died. Nobody’s listening. I don’t think they ever were.” He didn’t wait for her to answer; instead, he headed into the bathroom and turned on the shower full blast, letting water beat against him, boiling hot, until he felt closer to his dreams.

*

The fire didn’t burn anymore. It came every now and then, like the room itself got bored when Alastair left him alone and did its best to occupy Dean’s time. But after the things Alastair had done, the countless ways he’d bored into Dean’s insides, into his soul, the fire seemed...quaint. It was meaningless. It could burn him down to the bone and he’d just come back, excruciatingly slow or instantly, depending on the day or week.

He didn’t know how long he’d been here. It was hard to measure time except in increments of _Oh no, he’s here_ and _He’s gone, thank fuck._ But he’d been here a while. It made things easier in a way. He didn’t think of before as much anymore, only once in a while, only if Alastair left him alone long enough, sometimes it was the fire that did it, fire reminded him of other fires, and when he smelled his own flesh burn, he remembered the smell of all the corpses they’d burnt, and the smell of their house burning, his mother, his life burning, and he remembered clutching baby Sam in his arms as Dad broke down beside him.

Sam was safe. Sam was alive. The thought had given him comfort in the early days, and he supposed it still did now though it had become less of a mantra and more of a recitation. The words were losing meaning as his memories became less and less distinct. But he thought them, nonetheless. He’d stopped the third mantra, Sam, help me, a long time ago.

But it came to him then, bubbling up out of nowhere, bursting open and skittering across his mind with a million echos, all his cries for help from his time here echoing inside his head like they’d never left his lungs and were still trapped inside of him.

The door flew open. Dean steeled himself, clenched his eyes shut and forced them open again. Alastair didn’t like it when he tried to hide. But it wasn’t Alastair at the door.

*

Sam was alone. He’d woken up hours ago and couldn’t go back to sleep, too on edge from his constant nightmares but too exhausted to do much of anything productive beyond a few sets of pushups and crunches. He steadfastly ignored the traces of black veins that had crawled up to his shoulders. It didn't matter. Nothing that happened to him mattered as long as it got him closer to killing Lilith.

He was on his last set when he heard the sound of Ruby’s car pulling into the parking lot. The Mustang she’d picked had a muted but recognizable growl to it. That and he’d learned how to sense her, how to pick her out from other demons in a crowd. It was useful, like a low-level radar sweep he’d started to do almost without thinking about it. And far less disturbing than the other ways he could detect demons, like by scent. He knew Ruby’s scent best of all. He loved the smell of her—her skin, her blood when she got close enough to the door and his mouth watered in response.

She opened the door a moment later and gave him a smile before shutting the door behind her. “Hi honey, I’m home.”

“How was work?” he asked, a tired joke but all he had brainpower for until he got some caffeine into him.

“Not bad,” Ruby said without missing a beat. “Night shift sucks but you meet the most interesting people.” She waggled her eyebrows on the last words.

Sam turned towards her, instantly more awake. “Who’d you meet?”

“A doctor at a bar, psychologist. Was talking about a patient of hers.”

“Yeah?” Sam asked, not convinced what business this was of theirs.

“This patient is nuts, she says, religious psychosis—talks and writes and draws nonstop about the end times, about the Devil, about demons and angels, and today she keeps writing this one name over and over: Sam Winchester.”

Sam stared at her. “Is she psychic? Or possessed?”

Ruby shrugged at him. “Both, neither, no clue, but if she’s talking about you, maybe we ought to go talk to her.”

*

After two months of doing this with him, Ruby was starting to get the hang of working a job and pretending to be a Fed. The first time Sam had suggested her coming along, she’d bristled, and he’d gone on his own only to have her show up fifteen minutes later in a suit with a badge that looked more real than Sam’s. Because she’d taken it from an agent, he suspected.

This time, she had their cover story all planned out. They were _“doing research on religious psychosis, interviewing patients to get a better understanding, blah blah blah… ”_ She’d even gotten them badges ahead of time. Again, Sam didn’t question how.

The facility was higher security than he’d expected, with an armed guard by the door of the wing that housed the patient they were here for—Anna Milton.

“No chairs,” the guard said, glancing at their badges. “You gotta stand.”

Sam nodded, as they headed further down the hall. Anna’s doctor was out today, a lucky coincidence or exactly the scenario Ruby knew to take advantage of, either way, Anna looked surprised to see them, not just surprised, but afraid.

“Your face,” she said, pointing at Ruby wide-eyed. “Who are you?”

“It’s okay, we’re grad students,” Sam started, “This is Ruby and I’m—“

“I know who you are,” Anna said, eyes flicking nervously from Ruby to Sam and back, “You’re Sam Winchester.”

Sam was about to argue, but what was the point. “You know me?”

“I’ve seen you.” She pointed at her temple. “They showed me. They talk about you all the time.”

“They?”

“First words I ever heard the angels say, clear as anything: Sam Winchester has breached Hell.”

Sam was struck silent, slack-jawed for a moment. “When?” he asked, voice wavering.

“Six months ago.”

Sam’s heart dropped to his feet. Six months ago he’d been at his lowest, every crossroads demon he’d summoned had turned him down. He’d dug up every resurrection text he could find and none of them had given him the answers he needed and then one night, one night he—a sharp pain tore through his head, as he struggled to remember.

“What else did they say?” Ruby asked, and her voice sounded muffled by the thundering pulse in Sam’s ears.

“First tell me why your face looks like that,” Anna said.

Ruby crossed her arms across her chest and let out a huff, leaning against the wall.

Sam took a step forward, holding up his hands in what he hoped was a calming gesture. “She’s a friend. She’s been to Hell, but she got out to help us fight other demons.”

“So she’s what—a good demon?” Anna asked. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Believe it or don’t,” Ruby snapped. “If you know about Sam then you’re already in danger. You need our help whether you want it or not. Now, you gonna tell us what else you heard the angels say?”

Anna looked flustered for a minute, swallowed hard. “There was a battle—orders to stop Sam, to keep him from reaching the inner levels of Hell, more orders, screaming—so much screaming, and then…” Anna looked at Sam again with those haunted, wide eyes, “And then they said: Dean Winchester is saved.”

Sam swallowed, throat dry. “Dean’s alive?”

“He’s with the angels,” Anna said.

Sam couldn’t speak past the lump in his throat. Dean deserved Heaven, and he’d more than earned his rest.

Ruby was still questioning Anna, grilling her, her questions muted by the rushing sound of blood pulsing through Sam, echoing in his ears. 

“I don’t know how I know,” Anna said. “I just hear them. I can’t control it.”

Ruby frowned at her, eyes flicking over to Sam. She must’ve had the same thought Sam had: If Anna was telling the truth like he knew she was, then he _had_ nearly gotten Dean out, stormed the gates of Hell. And he didn’t remember any of it. “Did they… did the angels make me forget?” Sam asked.

“How should I know?” Anna asked. “I’m just a freak who hears things.”

“You’re not a freak,” Sam said, “we believe you.”

“Then maybe you should check yourselves in too,” Anna said, with a wan smile.

Ruby gave Sam another look, eyebrow cocked before turning back to Anna. “You want to get out of here?”

Anna shook her head. “I need to get better first.”

Sam’s fingers clenched. Whoever she was, this girl had told him something so incredible, even he had difficulty believing it. But he did, he believed every word. He reached into his pocket and handed Anna his card. “If you think of anything else.” He corrected himself. “If you hear anything else you think we should know about, anything at all.”

Ruby stood too, eyes sticking to Anna until the very last moment. She followed Sam out into the hall and looked at him. “You know we can’t leave her here.”

“She doesn’t want to leave.” He thought for a minute. “She’s safe here, right?”

“If she’s really hearing angels—“ Ruby lowered her voice, “then she won’t be safe anywhere.”

“Angels protect people.”

Ruby gave him a withering look and shook her head. “First off, you don’t know angels. Second—we don’t know that’s what she’s really hearing. We’re just taking her word for it. Why would they even let her listen in?”

“What else could it be? Demons pretending to be angels?”

“Or she’s just plain crazy.”

“She knew my name.”

“Crazy and psychic. It happens.” They reached the door and waited for the guard to buzz them out.

Sam waited until they were outside to say what had been on the tip of his tongue since Anna had first said the word. “Angels are real.” He couldn’t help but smile when he said it. After so much evil, confirmation that there was good in the world, living agents of good, made him feel a glimmer of hope again.

Ruby looked at him and Sam could practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Yeah, and if they know about you we’ve got to be extra careful.”

“Why? I’m not afraid of angels.” Sam stopped, hand on the door of their car.

“You should be.” Ruby climbed into the passenger seat, arms crossed over her chest.

They'd been using this Mustang Ruby had found for a while now, and Sam had nearly—but not entirely—forgotten all about the Impala, which was safe at Bobby's. He'd tried to take care of her at first, but couldn't—the smell and feel too familiar, too much of Dean in the creak of her leather seats, and the stifling weight of Sam’s failure permeated the air inside of her, too strong a reminder.

Sam put the key in the Mustang’s ignition but didn’t turn it, thoughts racing. “They said I breached Hell.”

Ruby nodded. “And you don’t remember doing it.”

Sam shook his head. “Neither do you. You would’ve noticed if I’d tried something like that, right?”

“Six months ago I was still fighting my way out of the pit,” Ruby said. “But if you don’t remember, that means somebody took your memories.”

“Who?” Sam asked. “Lilith?”

Ruby shrugged. “You ask me? My money’s on the angels.”

*

**_19:17 And I saw an angel standing in the sun; and he cried with a loud voice, saying_ **

“You’ve been drawing a lot, Anna.”

Anna looked up. She’d been, in fact, so absorbed in her drawings she hadn’t even noticed Dr. Dury come in. She set down her red crayon and forced a weak smile on her face before meeting the doctor’s gaze. “Yeah, I guess. It helps.”

Dr. Dury reached for her drawing pad before asking, “May I?”

Anna handed the pad over wordlessly, preparing herself for the inevitable questioning her latest artworks would bring. She wished she could draw more normal things like butterflies or rainbows or even houses. She’d tried a few times, but the butterfly had become a dragon, the rainbow a hungry fire, and the house a broken chapel filled with dead nuns.

Dr. Dury flipped the pages in silence, frowning slight enough that she probably thought Anna wouldn’t notice. But Anna noticed everything including the flinch when she reached the page with the beast with an angel in its mouth standing in a field of bloody bodies. But the good doctor kept going, admiring all of Anna’s recent masterpieces until she got to her page of writing. She read for a few moments more and then looked up at Anna.

“ _The seals are breaking_ ,” Dr. Dury read. “ _The Beast will awaken._ What do these phrases mean to you?”

Anna gave her a look. “Nothing. It’s stupid. I know you think I’m crazy.”

Dr. Dury smiled at her, placating and sickly sweet. “I’m here to listen, Anna. I just want to understand what they mean to you.” She pointed at the sheet. “You wrote both of these phrases several times.”

“They say them a lot.”

“The voices.”

“The _angels_.”

Dr. Dury nodded. “And what do you think they mean?”

“That they’re losing,” Anna said. “They can’t stop it.”

“The Apocalypse you mentioned before?”

Anna nodded.

“And when they lose?” Dr. Dury held the drawing pad out to her.

“Lucifer rises. The world ends.” Anna took her pad back and paged to her unfinished drawing: the chimeric Beast victorious. She turned it around and showed it to Dr. Dury. “That’s why they’re going with plan B.”

*

Sam knew something was off the moment they reached the motel door. Somebody was inside; he’d seen their silhouettes through the flimsy curtains. But more than that, his other senses, the ones Ruby had been training him to use, were going haywire.

Ruby had clearly sensed it too, hand on Sam’s elbow. She shook her head slowly, but Sam wasn’t about to back down. If they were being ambushed he wanted to know. If it was a demon—any demon, he was ready. If it was a person, he had a plan for that too. Sam pulled his gun.

"That won't do any good," Ruby said quietly.

"You know who it is?"

"Considering who we just talked to, I'd think that was obvious," Ruby said, and she was trembling.

"Angels," Sam breathed, his heart racing. He'd prayed for so long and now they were coming to see him, but after everything he'd done—and the added question of what he'd done that he couldn't even _remember_ , he didn't know how to feel. His faith had broken when Dean died, but maybe it hadn't been misplaced after all. Sam put his gun away and couldn't help but smile when he looked at Ruby—warm memories of Pastor Jim's church and the shining winged guardians in the stained glass window, the way the sun streaming through them covered him in rainbows, made him feel safe. "They're here."

“And you're happy? You should be terrified!” Ruby hissed, and Sam could feel the fear coming off of her. "They smite first, ask questions later."

“If they were here to kill us, they would’ve done it already,” Sam said. “If they’re that powerful. Why wait?” He put his hand on the doorknob. “Maybe they just want to talk.” He pushed the door open and stepped into the room.

A man in a trenchcoat was inside, staring at them both curiously.

Ruby shut the door behind them, swallowing audibly.

“Who are you?” Sam asked.

“You don’t get to ask the questions,” said another voice, from a man—another angel—standing further back in the room with his back turned towards them. He wore a dark navy suit and an air of annoyance.

Sam’s mouth went instantly dry. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—“

“You should be sorry,” said the angel in the suit, turning. “For a great many things.”

“What?” Sam asked. This wasn’t at all how he’d pictured angels. Maybe they were here to kill them after all and they just wanted to reprimand him first.

With a sigh, the man in the trenchcoat took a step towards them. “What Uriel means to say is that we’re here to help.” He smiled in a way that looked like he wasn’t accustomed to it, “I’m Castiel.”

Sam held out his hand, eager to get on better footing. “Sam.”

“Yes, Sam Winchester,” said Castiel, clasping Sam’s hand in both of his. “The boy with the demon blood.”

Sam’s face fell. Was that all he was to them: the freak tainted since birth? A lance of pain cut through the back of his head and he suppressed a wince as a flash of jumbled images flickered across his thoughts: fire, metal grating, the sharp whistle of a blade on a sharpener, and Dean’s voice crying out to him. His nightmare coming back to haunt him—to remind him of his failure, of why he didn’t deserve an audience with angels.

Ruby had moved closer to Sam, as if he could somehow protect her, or hide her, and Sam did in that moment feel fiercely protective of her. She’d been there for him when he was at his lowest, pulled him back to the surface when he was drowning. There was no point in denying what they were to each other and what they’d been doing, the angels already knew anyway. It was safe to assume they knew everything.

Castiel cocked his head like he was at that very moment listening in on Sam’s thoughts, so Sam asked quietly, “Why are you here? What do you want from me?”

“We’re here because we have work for you,” Castiel said, voice level. “Because God commanded it.”

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. He’d thought himself damned, abandoned for so long. He’d given up, and now an actual angel of the Lord was standing before him telling him that God not only knew who he was, knew what he’d done, but had a plan for him. But if that was true, if God knew who he was, then surely— “My brother, Dean—“

“He’s safe.”

Sam’s chest filled with a swell of relief so great, so quickly, he thought he would burst, and he felt a thousand pounds lighter, like he could float away. “Can I see him?”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Uriel said, with his back still facing Sam.

“Rest assured, he’s in good hands,” Castiel said and his smile was genuine if ill-fitting.

“Are you—“ Sam couldn’t stop himself. “I’m sorry, I thought angels didn’t look like us.”

That garnered a laugh from Uriel. “We do not bear any resemblance to you lumps of clay.”

Castiel frowned and gestured at himself. “This is a vessel. His name is Jimmy.”

“You’re possessing someone?”

“They prayed for redemption,” Uriel said flatly. “We provided it.”

Sam nodded, and his shoulders felt a little heavier again. But only a little. Surely angels treated their hosts better than demons.

“You’ve prayed for redemption too, Sam Winchester, for forgiveness,” Uriel said, finally turning to face them. “Pleaded for it.”

“I have,” Sam said. Before Dean’s death, he’d prayed with a ferocity he’d never had before or since.

“Do you still think you deserve forgiveness, after everything you’ve done?” Uriel’s voice was a low grumble, distant thunder threatening to roll closer.

For a beat, Sam said nothing, waiting for further condemnation, but when none came, he said, “I’m trying to save people.”

“Using the filthy taint in your blood,” Uriel said.

“He’s using his powers to help people!” Ruby snapped.

“Hold your tongue, demon, or I’ll tear it out,” Uriel said with a slow smile.

“Uriel—“ Castiel started again.

“No, Castiel. It’s bad enough we have to associate with this stain,” Uriel said giving Ruby a withering glare. “I will not allow her to lecture _us_.”

“It’s true,” Castiel said. “We’re aware of the lives Sam has saved with his power. That’s why we’re here.”

Sam waited for the other shoe to drop, waited for them to tell him to stop, or that he was going about it the wrong way. Surely angels couldn’t approve of him drinking demon blood.

“Your unique abilities could help us win a battle,” Castiel said. “One of the seals has been broken. Two witches have resurrected Samhain.”

“If it’s already broken, what can I do?” Sam asked.

“Samhain rising is one seal. An angel spilling his blood is another. We cannot kill him. But _you_ can.”

“I can’t—“ Sam looked at Ruby. “I can send them back to Hell, I haven’t been able to kill one—except with the knife. Not yet, anyway.”

“No weapon made by man can kill Samhain. But you can, and you will,” Uriel said. “Or else…” he narrowed his eyes and Sam felt like a butterfly pinned to a board under the weight of that gaze, “or else, we were mistaken and you’re useless to us.”

“When the time comes, you’ll know what to do,” Castiel said, pressing his thumb against Sam’s forehead, giving him the information he needed—where to find Samhain, and when. “We believe in you,” Castiel added and those last words came with another smile that Sam convinced himself felt true.

The angels vanished and Sam and Ruby were alone again.

*

Samhain was where the angels said he’d be, raising the dead in a mausoleum.

Ruby had given Sam another drink of her blood on the way and helped him fight his way in past the army of dead Samhain had raised, but just when they finally got a bead on what room he was in, another throng of zombies came from the walls. Ruby, with her blade in hand, said, “Go, I’ll hold them off.”

The knife wouldn’t work on Samhain anyway, the angels had made that much clear. But despite the fresh dose of Ruby’s blood in his veins, Sam felt he wasn’t anywhere near strong enough to kill a demon, let alone one as powerful as Samhain must be; doubt gnawed at him. What if this whole thing was a trap? What if the angels needed Sam to sacrifice himself to Samhain and had convinced him to do so for some reason he’d never understand? Maybe that was his path to redemption. Either way, he wasn’t about to question them now that he was here. So, with one last shaky breath he squared his shoulders and walked around the corner to face Samhain.

The demon sneered when he saw Sam, stretched out his hand and blasted Sam with the same bright light Lilith had used on him the night she’d come for Dean. And just like last time, the light rolled ineffectively through Sam. “Yeah,” Sam said, getting more confident. “That demon ray-gun stuff? Doesn’t work on me.” Beneath those words was a bone-deep certainty, Sam’s will swearing to Samhain that he would die tonight. The angels were on his side. _God_ was on his side.

Maybe it was that undercurrent of intent that Samhain responded to; he _flinched_ , pinprick pupils dilating for a fraction of a second. Long enough for Sam to smell his fear.

Samhain was strong, much stronger than the demons Sam had faced so far, and even just getting a hold on him was a strain on Sam’s power. He slowed him though, the demon inching forward one step at a time, until Sam buckled and then lost his hold completely, Samhain quickly closing the distance between them. Sam pulled his knife from its sheath in reflex. It wouldn’t kill the demon, but it didn’t need to.

Unimpressed by the knife, Samhain grabbed Sam’s neck and lifted him clean off the floor. A wordless, warning growl built in Sam’s chest, something deep inside of him hungry for release. Sam shoved the knife in his grip straight up, slicing open the inside of Samhain’s wrist, and before the demon had a chance to react, Sam latched onto the wound and drank deep.

*

**_13:7 It was granted to him to make war with the saints and to overcome them_ **

Samhain looked down at his stolen body’s arm, bemused. This child actually thought it stood a chance against him. It was drinking his blood now, holding on with a strength unbefitting humans, and surely blood held power. But there was no way a human could defeat him, no matter how strong. “I am a god,” Samhain told him, as he yanked his arm free of the boy’s mouth. “Your kind worshipped me for centuries, paid tribute to me. They still do.”

“You’re nothing,” the boy said, through blood-stained teeth, “They forgot all about you.”

“I will make them remember.”

“No, you won’t,” the boy said, and it was then that Samhain knew the truth—felt the nature of the being trapped inside this human shell. The Beast raised his arm, and power poured out of him in gleaming cords, that wound themselves around Samhain, binding him, rendering him impotent. _Do you think they’ll worship me?_ the Beast seemed to ask, his power raking deep through Samhain’s insides like it was tilling the earth.

The Beast’s chin dripped with blood. Purposefully, locking eyes with Samhain, the Beast swiped his fingers over the still oozing wound on Samhain’s arm, coating them with blood and brought them to his own face, drawing a mask over his features.

Samhain’s vision shifted as the boy’s skin became transparent and he could see the Beast beneath, eyes aglow. He wasn’t human after all. He wasn’t of Hell or Heaven or anything in between. He was something entirely new, not yet fully in the world but almost. _Almost_.

Samhain fell to his knees—against his will, puppeteered—hands clasping together as though in prayer as the last of his being was snuffed out.

*

Sam came out of the mausoleum in a stupor, senses overloaded from the influx of Samhain’s blood and the power it held. The walls around him bowed in and out, in and out, in a way that made him think of his lungs, too big for his body, each breath pressing harder and harder against his too-small ribs. His skin was too tight, his body too constrictive for what he held inside of him. Near the front door, he stopped, resting against an iron gate. The room behind it was filled with corpses empty and rotting and as Sam’s fingers curled around the iron it melted in his grip turning soft and yellow-red, dripping down onto the floor like lava. He lifted his hand away, turning it around to see the new branches of black veins now covering his palm. He flexed his fingers and saw the veins undulate and thicken in response, still pulling Samhain's blood deeper inside of him. The main gate opened at his approach, swinging out into the chill night air. His breath came out steaming white, overheated from the inside.

Ruby was waiting for him, turned at his approach, and her face, her true face, struck Sam as strangely beautiful. He’d only caught glimpses of it before on the edge of his periphery, but never enough to take it all in at once, but tonight the blood acted like a lens, showing him all those bits of truth not splintered anymore but a kaleidoscope coming slowly into focus. Her borrowed features were a mask and beneath them she was ancient, eyes dark and churning with fiercely guarded knowledge. Her mouth was a jagged thing, sewn shut on one side with sinew and torn open on the other. She’d been silenced for eons but had chewed her way through with teeth that gleamed wicked sharp and when she smiled at him it tore another stitch free.

He saw for a moment as she did, her view of him echoed back and he wasn’t a man, he wasn’t constricted in those confines, his body was as much of a shell as hers, and the truth of what he was had started to spill out at the edges, uneven and just as twisted as her, his ribcage jutted out of his sides, he was taller by a foot or more, and wider, shoulders hunching forward, and heavy with new muscle lined with those power-filled veins that to her glowed lightning-bright, horns curved out the top of his skull and when he smiled back at Ruby, his teeth were just as sharp as hers.

She reached for him when he got close, brought her hand up to his cheek, tracing her fingers up and up until they brushed against where he knew those horns would be if only they were real. They weren’t yet but would be, or maybe they had been once before. He tried to hold onto that thought, to the feel of his hands like talons digging down into rock, tearing through the strata of Hell, down and down until he found what he’d been searching for, until he’d found—

Ruby kissed him, pulling him back to the present, the smell of her and the taste familiar. Her touch was reverent, and she asked him without speaking and he told her, about how he’d killed Samhain and how he’d felt when he’d done it, power building inside of him until he was bursting at the seams with it, and now he remembered—he’d been this strong before and he’d done it for a reason, he’d found a way to get Dean out of Hell and he’d fought his way down through the throng of demons following the sound of his brother’s screams, and then just when he’d found Dean, right when he’d reached out and touched him—somebody had stopped him.

“You’ve done well, Sam Winchester,” Uriel said, appearing next to them. The trees behind him bowed in the wind, bent nearly in half as the wind built up speed and then sprang back into place as the gusts fell away again. “Leave,” he said, turning to Ruby. And she did, vanishing.

“You made me forget,” Sam said, looking at Uriel, piercing the veil the way he had with Ruby, seeing the angel’s true form beneath his borrowed body. Uriel was blinding—an all-consuming, all-seeing light, his wings gleaming mirrors refracting everything around them: the trees, the mausoleum full of corpses fallen still once again, Sam and his double self, trails of fire in his eyes as he turned his head.

“Forget what?” Uriel said with a wicked grin as one of those razor-sharp, mirrored wings curved in and touched Sam’s forehead.

*

Uriel was used to arrogance from humans. They thought themselves the apex of their world, ignorant of the true power above and below watching them. They were petty little things, self-involved and self-important. Even robbed of the knowledge of what he truly was, this Winchester boy was no better. Lucifer’s vessel stood before him, bleating about how he had saved this town and all the people within and expected some kind of gratitude.

“Yes, you did what we asked,” Uriel said, humoring him. “And you will continue to do exactly what we say, when we say it. Or I will turn you to dust.”

Sam flinched, as he should, but there was something else in his eyes, a flicker of challenge, and instead of being cowed he rolled his shoulders back and said, “Will you?”

Uriel bristled. Was this human _calling his bluff?_ Uriel certainly could take Sam down now but would never. That would be in direct opposition to Lucifer’s plans, and he would never interfere with those. Clearly he hadn’t pushed Sam’s knowledge down far enough. He prodded again, folding over the edges of Sam’s awareness until uncertainty bubbled back to the surface but found himself wondering if perhaps they had underestimated the risk involved with this particular strategy. Uriel studied Sam closely, using his senses to peer beneath his human shell, to see the finer points of his soul, and what he saw there nearly made him break his cover. 

The child had not only defeated the old demon, he’d drunk it down, its sulfurous blood still fresh in his veins, fueling his transformation. The foolish boy didn’t even know what he was doing to himself. What he truly was. Uriel wondered idly what would happen if he showed him? If he held up a mirror and showed Sam more than just the sharpening of his teeth and the talons, if he showed him the glimmering thorns piercing through the crown of his head, the halo of fire above it, the sheer monstrous shape his soul was taking. Would it stop him or send him headlong into Lucifer’s waiting embrace? He gave Sam a glimpse, since he seemed so eager to see and then withdrew, pulling Sam’s memories out thread by thread, leaving him only with the knowledge that he’d done what the angels asked and the pride he’d felt doing it. Pride was Lucifer’s favorite sin, after all.

He brought Sam back to the hole he’d been living in with his demonic feedbag, still tempted to tell him everything, to see if Sam would understand the bigger picture. Uriel always focused on the bigger picture and rarely let himself get distracted by his own wants, but in this moment he himself felt tempted. Their secret weapon was advancing so much faster than anticipated and Uriel wanted nothing more than to bring him to his full potential now and unleash him on the whole unsuspecting Host.

But instead, Uriel said nothing, kept his steely mask in place. He’d play his part, and Sam would play his, and when Lucifer took him, the world would be remade. With a flick of his fingers, he yanked out the rest of the knowledge Sam wasn’t yet allowed to be privy to, released him from his temporary trance, and vanished.

*

Most of the souls on Dean’s rack were strangers. They didn’t stay that way for long, of course. Torture had as much to do with the mind as it did the flesh, especially down here. Alastair had taught him that lesson over and over and _over_. And one thing Hell was exceptionally good at was providing the tools to inflict as much pain as possible. Dean’s scalpels cut into whatever he wanted them to: skin, muscle, fat, bone, offal, and deeper still. He could reach memories, dig them up and extract them, and he loved doing that, pulling them out in strands as thin as dental floss or thick as wire rope.

Because the thing was, memories _hurt_ souls—newer ones especially—more than anything else he could do with a knife or needle or hammer.

Dean didn’t take a break between souls, didn’t need to, didn’t want to. He liked cleaning up the prior occupant’s mess in front of his new guest. Gave them something good to ogle at while he got a feel for them. He was getting better at reading them every day. Some skills really did translate perfectly into his new occupation.

The faceless demons that swapped out the souls on his rack may as well have been robots. There was nothing to them. They’d been here long enough to have had even the evil burned out of them. Or, he mused, maybe they’d never had any to begin with. Plenty down here for crossroads deals didn’t have it in them to be demons, and instead of twisting and breaking the way Hell intended, they just crumbled, over time. They likely never even had a turn on the rack. But this new soul the two mannequins had lugged in was interesting. He was laughing while they pulled him, humming even. Dean wiped his favorite blade of the week, a razor-sharp paring knife, clean on his apron and waited for the new soul to be properly strapped down before turning to face him.

Dean had been down here for a long time, he wasn’t sure how long exactly. Decades, for sure, but how many he had no idea. Before his promotion, days and weeks and months had all felt like the same excruciating moment on an infinite loop. Now he measured time in souls. He hadn’t started counting them until he was four or five hundred in. But based on the tick marks on his workshop wall, this one would finish off another block of hundred, making it number twenty thousand give or take. And this was the first soul out of all of those thousands that he _recognized_.

The man in his rack was a hunter. One he’d met above, back when they were dealing with Bela and her cursed rabbit foot. This hunter had caught Sam and threatened to kill him before Dean stepped in and took him down with a pen and magically enhanced luck. He traced his paring knife over the hunter’s cheek, no real pressure, not even enough to draw blood, just enough to scratch the surface of his mind. “Kubrick.”

“Dean Winchester,” he said and his smile widened until it was a yellow-toothed grin. Kubrick hadn’t changed much at all yet. A little sharpening of the canines and molars maybe, but other than that he looked human.

“Didn’t think I’d see _you_ again,” Dean drawled, amused.

“Maybe you didn’t. But I did. I knew.”

“You did, huh?”

“I _prayed_ for it.”

That made Dean laugh, an honest-to-God or whatever belly laugh. “You do know where you are, right? Why you’re here?”

Kubrick nodded, eyes eager and alight. “I prayed to him every day to show me how I could serve him from down here. That’s all I want—to serve him.”

Dean clucked his tongue and brought the paring knife down to Kubrick’s chest, pushing down right below the sternum. “Serve who? Jesus? _God?_ ” Dean shook his head. “They can’t hear you down here you know.”

Kubrick laughed, jagged and just crazed enough to make Dean wonder how hard he’d have to work on this one.

“I stopped praying to Jesus the moment I realized who our true savior was.”

“Oh, yeah? Who’s that?” Dean asked as he pulled the knife straight down, down, down, slicing Kubrick open all the way to his belly button. Kubrick, for his part, winced and moaned in a way that would’ve made Dean uncomfortable if he had the capacity. Uncomfortable or proud. “Hey, eyes on me,” Dean snapped, twisting the curved tip of the paring knife around until it caught the innards of the belly button and untwisted it. _Keep their focus on you, always._ It was the first lesson Alastair had taught him. _Don’t let them drift, not even for a second. That’s akin to mercy. And we can’t have that, can we?_ “I asked you a question.”

“Our savior...” Kubrick laughed again and his eyes glimmered with black speckles, reverse stars. “Oh, come on Dean, you know who he is, you’ve known your whole life. Our Savior, sanctified by Hell as a babe, he who died and was resurrected, the Adversary, the Antichrist, your brother, the _Beast_. I spent years looking for signs from a higher power—and when I finally got them, they led me straight to him.”

“Yeah, I remember. I walked in right when you were about to put a bullet in Sam’s head.”

Kubrick nodded, still smiling, too far gone to feel fear. “And even after, even after I—like a fool—tried to kill him, he didn’t turn his back on me. When I prayed to Sam, he answered.” And just like that, Kubrick’s whole expression crumbled, the madness in his eyes quieted and an actual goddamn tear rolled down his cheek. “He _heard_ me, when I was on my knees dying, when Gordon had his hand in my chest and my heart in his fingers. When he killed me, I prayed to Sam, and he told me what was coming, said you were gonna be here, waiting for me, and that you would give me absolution.”

Dean’s hand had stopped moving. He hadn’t been unnerved by anything in a long time. Souls said the craziest shit, anything to try to weasel out of pain. But this guy was so far gone, he wanted to be here, and somehow thought Sam had known about it, back when the both of them were still alive, when Sam still had hope enough for the both of them. It was probably just a particularly fancy delusion on Kubrick’s part, but something about the fervor in his voice made Dean think it was more than that. His shoulder twitched, that old scar acting up again, the one he couldn’t think about, the one that hurt to think about. He shrugged it off, physically flexing his chest, getting his head back in the game. Twenty-thousand souls and he hadn’t lost his way, this little lunatic wasn’t gonna be the one to break his streak. He set his paring knife down, cracked his knuckles, and slipped his fingers into the cut he’d made down Kubrick’s middle, pulling his skin open nice and slow, exposing his ribcage and all the goodies beneath.

Kubrick’s eyes rolled back in agony or ecstasy or both and Dean ignored him, focusing instead on his squishy innards. He was going to make this one scream and bleed and suffer until he’d burned that misplaced faith out of him, no matter how long it took.

*

**_13 And he was clothed with a vesture dipped in blood: and his name is called The Word of God_ **

“Tell me where she is,” Sam said, squeezing the demon’s soul harder until it cried out once more in agony.

Ruby had zeroed in on this one as a recent escapee, somebody who’d just gotten out of Hell, released, presumably by Lilith or somebody else equally strong. The demon should be able to give them some kind of useful intel on Lilith. They’d trapped him here in this abandoned meat-packing plant, where he could scream as much as he wanted without the risk of anyone hearing them.

“I told you—I don’t know!” The demon shouted.

Sam crushed the demon further and had to stop himself from snuffing him out. This one wasn’t anywhere near as strong as Samhain and was already starting to char at the edges.

“I snuck out, okay!” The demon shouted, smoke trailing out of his mouth along with the words, “When she sent Alastair up here.”

“Alastair,” Sam repeated, the name familiar in a way he couldn’t quite place. “Who is he?”

“Hell’s chief torturer,” Ruby answered. “He had Dean on the rack for sure.”

“He did,” the demon said, gasping as Sam let up the pressure enough for him to speak. “But he doesn’t anymore.”

Sam smirked at him. “No, he doesn’t. The angels saved Dean.”

“Saved?” the demon guffawed, spittle flying out into the air. “Have you ever met an angel? He was better off in Hell.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s no redemption, you asshole,” the demon said. “Not for us. Once we’ve been to Hell, we’re a lost cause to them. If the angels have your brother, he’s a prisoner of war, nothing more.”

Sam’s heart raced in his chest and his anger surged up again. He wanted more from the demon but when he squeezed him again, his control slipped and he snuffed it out, crushing it flat, borrowed body and all. Blood splattered out of the empty human shell, and it tumbled to the floor, red gushing out the nose and mouth to pool around its shattered skull.

“Ruby,” Sam said, voice vibrating with range. “We’re summoning the angels.”

*

As calmly as she could, Ruby explained to Sam that angels couldn’t be summoned, not really. _They might hear you, sure, but they’re just as likely to ignore you. And plus, why would you ever want to summon one?_

But Sam didn’t seem to have the same fear of them she did, why should he? She watched him as he called for Uriel and Castiel again, growing more agitated with each try. His other self moved beneath his skin, power pulsing in time with his heartbeat, flaring dark red.

“You could try praying?” Ruby said finally. Sam turned towards her, eyes ablaze. “I’m serious,” she added. “They hear them, I think.”

Sam kept his eyes on her, folded his hands together and prayed: “Uriel, Castiel, I need to talk to you. _Please_.”

Wingbeats filled the room, echoing off the cement and sending the hooks rattling, and Castiel appeared, a curious expression on his face. “We don’t respond kindly to summons, but we are listening,” he said.

“Where’s Uriel?” Sam asked.

“Busy, I assume.”

“Where’s my brother?” Sam asked, taking a step towards the angel.

Ruby took a step away from the both of them, the suffocating press of power filling the air around her getting more than a little painful.

“I… don’t know,” Castiel said.

“So,” Sam said, nostrils flaring. “Angels lie, too.”

Castiel averted his eyes.

“Tell me where he is,” Sam said again, and more insistently, “please.” Maybe he figured since it had worked with the prayer it would work again now. But he didn’t know angels, didn’t know their ruthlessness. Ruby had known to fear them before she’d ever seen one; she’d heard enough stories. Angels couldn’t be swayed or persuaded. They were absolute, more blade than being. The fact that they were talking to her and Sam at all wasn’t just odd, it was unheard of. Something had changed in Heaven. They knew Lucifer was Lilith’s endgame, there was no way they didn’t know. But if they did then why hadn’t they killed Sam yet? Why were they encouraging him along the path?

“You want this to happen,” Ruby said, as the revelation hit her. “You want Sam to kill Lilith.” _You want him to raise Lucifer_ was implied though unspoken, and she knew Castiel had heard the last part.

“Of course we want Sam to kill Lilith,” Castiel said. “We believe he is the only one who can.”

Sam took notice of that, and his rage dissipated almost entirely. “I want to kill her, too,” Sam said, much more calmly now that he felt he had leverage. “So don’t lie to me. Tell me where Dean is. Let me see him,” and he didn’t sound angry at all anymore, he sounded young and small and sad.

Castiel took a step closer to him and said, “I’ll try, but understand, what we’re doing—what he is doing for us is important. It’s the will of Heaven.”

Sam nodded, Castiel reached out his hand, but just before his fingers could touch Sam, the sound of beating wings filled the room, and Sam vanished, pulled away in a flash of light. Someone else had taken him.

“Castiel?” Ruby asked, more than a little alarmed.

“I’m afraid I’ve just made things worse,” he said and then vanished as well.

*

Zachariah had never much liked Castiel; he was beneath him in rank and not worth much attention, but worse, he was uppity. Angels were reliable, above all other things. They did as they were told. When they didn’t, they weren’t much use to anyone, least of all angels of Zachariah’s standing. But that Castiel would so rapidly fall out of line and cow to the Abomination? Even Zachariah couldn’t have predicted that.

He’d intervened before Castiel had gotten the chance to show Sam Winchester anything, grabbed the boy himself instead. If anybody was going to traumatize Sam further it was going to be him damn it, not some pathetic seraphim.

Sam appeared, more angry than disoriented, and his power flared to life, a reflex surely, more than anything else. He didn’t truly know what he was or the extent of what he could do. "What have you been doing to Dean?" Sam asked, meeting Zachariah’s gaze, and he was not afraid.

“What makes you think we have him?”

Sam’s anger flared again; the Beast gave a warning growl. “I can feel him. He’s here, you’re hiding him.”

"Oh, come on, Sam. We resurrected him. Hallelujah! Also, you're welcome." He took a step closer. “Gratitude, not _attitude_ , would be appropriate.”

"Thank you for resurrecting him." Sam let out a dry huff. "Want to explain why you've been holding him captive this whole time?”

“We don’t owe you an explanation for anything,” Zachariah said. “But I’m feeling generous, so fine. We’re helping Dean develop his skills further. So he’ll be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“None of your business,” Zachariah said, flashing his pearly whites again. He liked that expression. _Pearly whites._ He was enjoying this whole conversation, despite the risk or maybe even because of it. Sam’s other self was coming through more and more often. Uriel and Castiel had pushed him back no less than twelve times between the two of them, and now it looked like Zachariah would have to do it again. But first he was going to have some fun. “But I’ll tell you anyway, since you really want to know.”

Sam calmed somewhat, rapt with attention, waiting for an answer.

“Dean has some truly special skills, ones he developed in Hell.” Zachariah watched Sam closely, adding, “Ones we need him to have. Ones we have continued to cultivate.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dean spent his first thirty years in Hell being tortured—“

“Thirty years?” Sam asked, and his voice cracked. He looked stricken, horrified. “He’s been dead for eight months, not—“

“Different time zones, kid. Keep up. And don’t interrupt me.” Zachariah snapped, watching Sam’s ears flush red with anger. “Thirty years your brother was on the rack, being tortured by Hell’s finest. Alastair.” To further drive home his point, Zachariah let his story unfold in the mirror behind them, like a silent movie, projected for Sam’s benefit. He continued narrating, as Sam’s eyes went still and glassy with pain as he watched Dean writhe and scream in technicolored silence as a white-eyed demon sliced into him.

“Every day Alastair would offer Dean a way to get off the rack. All he had to do was agree to torture souls himself. And every day he said no…”

Sam smiled, a flicker of pride in his eyes.

“Until after thirty years, he finally gave in and said yes.”

Sam’s face fell.

“So, he spent the next ten years doing the torturing. He was great at it. A real wunderkind, ya know?” Zachariah poked a finger at Sam’s chest. “But then _you_ came and nearly screwed it all up.”

“What?”

“You tried to bust him out before he was ready, before he became what we need him to be. So, we took him off your hands, brought him here, recreated his favorite workshop, and let him keep going. Now he’s a _maestro_.” Zachariah grinned.

“You made him think he was still in Hell? This whole time?”

“Yup.”

“But you’re angels. You can’t—“ Sam made an aborted laugh. “How could you?”

“Who do you think made Hell? Lucifer was our brother once upon a time.”

“Then why do you need Dean?” Sam asked, voice tight with anger. “If you know Hell so well. You already have me. Just use me. I don’t care what you do to me.” He pulled down the collar of his t-shirt, showing the black veins creeping towards his neck.

"Nice ink," Zachariah said with a wink. “And good pitch, but we need both of you. Humans understand torture better than we ever will. Something about mortality makes your kind far more aware of the _intricacies_ of pain. It’s beautiful to watch, the way you know exactly how to tear each other to shreds.” The film reel in the mirror showed Dean carving into a silently screaming woman, and Zachariah made sure to showcase not just her face, but Dean’s too, with a close up on his lips as they curved up in satisfaction after eliciting a particularly heart-wrenching shudder from his victim.

Sam’s chin quivered as he let his hands drop again, he was near tears, Zachariah could smell them forming. Pathetic.

“Dean going to Hell was all part of the plan, Sam. You were never going to save him, no matter what you did. We would’ve stopped you. We _did_ stop you.”

Sam’s eyes widened as he remembered, he balled his fists and the Beast’s eyes flashed hellfire bright. “Let Dean go. Right now.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll take him from you,” the Beast said, horns jutting through Sam’s head, skin peeling back as his maw grew, teeth sharpening.

“Uh uh,” Zachariah said, and he couldn’t suppress a chuckle. He reached out two of his meatsuit’s fingers and touched Sam’s forehead, used a sliver of angelic will to stop Sam’s transformation cold, pushing his true self back down into the depths of his subconscious. There was a lot more of him, and he had to exert some effort to get him truly locked back up again, but it wasn’t a worry, not yet, anyway. “Can’t have you running around aware of what you’re truly capable of,” Zachariah muttered under his breath as Sam’s eyes rolled back into his head, his memories slithering out into the ether at Zachariah’s behest. “That would ruin everything.”

Sam stood in front of him, expressionless, a malleable doll. Human.

Zachariah patted Sam’s cheek. Lucifer sure knew how to pick ‘em. “Just do your job. We’ll call you when we need you. You’ll get your chance with Alastair soon enough, don’t you worry.”

*

Sam found himself back in the meat-packing plant, across from Ruby who sat on the floor with a map and scrying bowl in front of her.

Relief filled her face as she stood. "Sam—"

"How long was I gone?"

"Two days. I looked for you," she gestured at the map, "but the angels really know how to cover their tracks."

"Two days… " Sam repeated. It hadn't felt like that long. What had they done to him for two days? "The angels showed me—told me what they've been doing to Dean, and then they—they did something to me." He took a step closer to her and she looked up at him with those soft brown eyes. He could see the black beneath them, feel the contours of the real her inside of the human body, and when he reached for her, he touched both of them, brushing his fingers deeper than her flesh. She leaned into him, pulling him close, her hands wrapping around his lower back, pressing her head against his chest so he could lean his head on top of hers.

"They keep pulling memories out of me, Ruby. I don’t know what they're taking and what they're leaving. But what I do know is that they still have Dean, and they won't let me see him." 

"It’s this," she said, brushing her fingers over his back, over the sigil and the pronounced black branches of veins that had grown thicker and longer. "What you’re becoming. Soon, they won't be able to take your memories away anymore, and they’re terrified of that. Of what you'll do when they can't control you anymore. You’re going to surpass them someday."

"Surpass _angels_?"

Ruby pulled back from him, smirking. "The way your power's been growing, it'll be soon."

"I want Dean," Sam said resolutely. "They don't get to use him or me. Can you find him?"

"Maybe," Ruby shook her head. "Like I said, the angels can cover their tracks." She sat next to the map again, cross-legged. "But if you help me, if you help me amplify the spell, I don't think they can hide from us.”

Sam nodded and sat down across from her. "Show me."

She pulled a small knife from her boot, the one she used to open her veins for him, but this time brought it to his wrist instead of hers. Nodding towards the bowl near the map, she pulled it closer telekinetically, positioning it under Sam's arm. "We don't need much. Just enough to use as ink on the map."

*

**_15 And out of his mouth goeth a sharp sword, that with it he should smite the nations_ **

They found Dean. Ruby convinced Sam that driving there was the smartest move because the angels would be far less likely to spot them coming, so Sam had driven in their warded car, as quickly as he could without attracting attention from law enforcement. He found the empty steel mill easily enough, it was glowing with protective Enochian sigils the angels had put around it to keep the location hidden. But the sigils couldn't keep Sam out, if they were even intended to. Could be that Ruby was right and this whole thing was a trap. They may have planned this whole thing to get Sam to come after Dean. But right now, he didn't care one way or the other. He was sick of being toyed with, sick of being lied to. He was going to free his brother. And this time, nobody would stop him.

Sam heard screaming the moment he opened the door. Not Dean's. But a voice he recognized. He sprinted down the winding halls, following those sounds of pain until he found its source—Castiel was screaming, Alastair had a silver knife in the angel's shoulder and his hand on his forehead, chanting in Latin, trying to expel the angel. And on the floor, bruised and bleeding, was Dean.

Torturing for so long had given Dean another truer self too, his hellish nature was seeping out through his porous soul: phantom scalpels hung from his waist in an intangible tool belt and the memory of blood and bile pooled around hands, making them glisten. He’d been wounded in more ways than one.

Sam stepped further into the room, thrust out his hand and let power pour out of him, pinning Alastair to the far wall.

*

Castiel watched, entranced and horrified as Sam’s body rippled and shifted, his soul coalescing around his body, far larger than it had any right to be, dwarfing Alastair’s true form: a thing made of spindly limbs and blades.

Sam’s raised arm was echoed by his real one, taloned and scaled, thick as a tree, and with it, he gripped Alastair by the throat and squeezed until the demon began to choke.

“How many years did you hurt Dean?” Sam asked, the glowing crown above his head flickering with flame.

"Plenty," Alastair rasped, grinning wickedly. "Long enough that he learned every single trick I know. I'm proud of him. He's my star pupil. He's ours forever, no matter what the angels say."

"No, he isn't. He's not yours, he's not theirs. He's my brother."

"Heh," Alastair laughed, blood trickling from his mouth. "He sure is." He smiled again. "The angels—they sent him to torture me, can you believe it?" Alastair asked. "It was thrilling, really. He was taking his time, like I taught him, doing well until that little sparrow—" he nodded at Castiel, "—came in to stop him."

Castiel got enough strength together to pull the blade from his shoulder. Blood trickled from the wound and he barely had the power left to stem its flow.

"Enough," Sam said, without taking his eyes off Alastair, and from his mouth, his real mouth, a beam of light spilled forth, a sword of will, a sharp-pointed tongue that pierced Alastair’s heart, setting his soul ablaze. Their power clashed, Alastair gasping as he thrashed against Sam for one futile moment before he was rolled under, held completely still, like an insect trapped in amber. Sam siphoned the demon’s power up into himself until Alastair was hollowed out. The sword pushed in deeper and what remained of the demon shattered, flaking away into ash as the empty human shell collapsed, eyes still wide with shock.

Sam took a deep breath, the sword withdrawing. His soul was painfully bright. The hellfire he’d swallowed ran through him in veins of lava, his true body undulating, muscles rippling as they swelled and grew again. Sam raised his chin and his real form echoed the movement, the crown of his head pushing against the ceiling, cracking the plaster. He turned his gaze on Castiel and for a moment, they _saw_ each other, the unholy light from Sam’s two eyes meeting all hundred of Castiel’s. The stare lasted another beat and then Sam turned away, looking at the fallen form of his brother. “He needs help,” Sam said, crouching down to scoop Dean gently into his arms.

Castiel was struck by the incongruously gentle way Sam handled his brother, even as the abominable form within Sam kept pushing its way out. He wondered if that gentleness would survive Sam’s transformation. He hoped that it would.

*

Sam held vigil at his brother’s side, watched as his vitals ebbed and flowed. Gone were the blades and the gloves of blood. Dean was human. Battered and broken and near death. Thanks to the gross incompetence of Heaven. Whatever they'd hoped to accomplish, they'd failed.

The twinge in Sam's back that he'd felt since he'd killed Alastair pulsed again, more painful than before, interrupting his thoughts. He reached a hand behind him to touch it and pulled his fingers back, shocked by the intense heat coming off of that spot. He'd have to have Ruby take a look at it later. But for now, he had more pressing things to worry about.

It was hard for him to look at Dean like this. For most of Sam's childhood, Dean had seemed untouchable—big and strong and everything Sam wanted to be. But now, he looked not just small, but frail, the tubes and wires surrounding him in a tangled cocoon and Sam hated it, he hated all of it. If he’d just gotten there sooner he could’ve saved Dean from all of this. He reached out his hand and gingerly touched Dean’s shoulder to offer some kind of comfort Dean probably couldn’t even feel. His gesture moved the short hospital gown sleeve just enough to see the bottom of the burn scar there. Something stirred in the corners of Sam’s mind, and he pushed the sleeve the rest of the way up until he could see the entirety of the scar, the red burn mark—a handprint.

With trembling fingers, Sam put his hand over the print, covering it perfectly. It was _his_ hand that had left the mark. A sharp lance of pain pierced through his back and his skull simultaneously and a flood of memories followed—sulfur all around him, and boiling heat, Dean’s voice calling out for him—Dean right there in front of him, bleeding on a rack—Sam had him, he’d found him, he was going to get him out, he grabbed for him, held onto him, and then a searing light filled the room surrounding both of them, until Sam’s screams and Dean’s became one agonized voice.

Sam _had_ saved Dean, but the angels had taken him away. And then they’d made him forget, they’d made both of them forget.

A flutter of wings, here and now, pulled Sam back to the present. Castiel was standing just outside Dean’s room, watching Sam with those unblinking eyes.

Hands curling to fists, Sam stood and walked out into the hall, fury instantly washing away the pain. Stopping a foot away from Castiel, Sam kept his voice down as much as he could, not wanting to disturb the rest of the hospital's patients or staff and said, "Get in there and heal him. Miracle. Now."

"I'm sorry, I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't?" Sam asked.

"My orders are—"

"You think I give a shit about your orders? After what you've done to him?" Sam took a step closer, locked eyes with Castiel. "For what, exactly? What did you need so badly from Alastair you thought it was worth throwing my brother's life away?”

"Lilith. We thought he could help us find her."

"And?"

Castiel averted his gaze, which told Sam everything he needed to know.

"So, this whole thing was pointless. You nearly got Dean killed again. For nothing."

"We brought him _back_ for our purposes," Castiel said. "Because Heaven has a plan for both of you."

"And we don't get a say?" Sam asked. "What about free will?"

"You have free will. But this is war."

Sam cracked his knuckles to keep from throwing a punch. Another pulse of pain radiated from his back stronger this time. "Help him, or leave," Sam said, pushing a thread of power into his voice.

Castiel looked at him again, steadily, and at that moment Sam saw through the vessel to the angel underneath, the hundreds of eyes looking back at him, unflinching.

The pain in his back came again, sharper, filling Sam's whole torso, running through his chest up his shoulders and settling down his right arm. Sam cried out and doubled over, supporting himself against the wall. His head pounded in time with his heartbeat, coalescing in two sharp points at his scalp. Sam reached up clumsily with his left hand and felt something bone-hard pushing through the crown of his head and when he brought up his right hand he saw, to his horror, that his skin was peeling off; the flesh underneath was covered in slick and shining scales of red and gold. His nails had grown long and sharp and felt hard as metal. As he held them up in front of him, they kept growing, pushing through the nail beds, the old keratin and skin falling off in messy chunks. "What’s happening to me?" he asked, looking back at Castiel.

"I'm...not sure," the angel said. "You appear to be changing."

Sam didn't have the energy or calm to respond to such a stupidly obvious statement, but his eyes fell on the door to Dean's room again, compounding the panic over his own unfolding situation. And then a nurse came around the corner, saw him and gasped, dropping the tray she was holding. Castiel turned around brought a finger to his lips, shushing her and she dropped to her knees, then slumped to the floor, fast asleep.

"I can't stay here," Sam said as the pain ratcheted up again, more skin flaking off of his arm. He looked back at Dean's door. "Please help him, keep him safe."

Castiel nodded. "Go. I will hold off the others as long as I can."

"Go?" Sam couldn't even figure out how to think straight let alone get out the door.

Castiel reached out and touched Sam's forehead, and when Sam could see again, he was in a motel room, standing across from Ruby.

*

**_16 And he hath on his vesture and on his thigh a name written, King Of Kings, And Lord Of Lords_ **

Ruby was shocked by Sam's sudden appearance, but completely awestruck by the change he’d undergone. His eyes were gleaming, the fire in them visible, not only to her anymore but to the whole world. Horns had started growing through the crown of his head, and his right hand was clawed, the skin covered in gold and red scales, the black of his veins visible beneath them as a network of shadows. He was magnificent, but she saw the hurt in his expression, the turmoil, felt his own jumbled thoughts— _Monster, look at what I am, look at what I’ve become._ And she grabbed him then and kissed him, pouring all her adoration back into him. She pulled back and took his clawed hand, gently tracing her fingers up the length of his forearm, up to the seam where the red and gold scales were still hidden by human flesh. He was beautiful.

[ ](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/quickreaver/14734378/145305/145305_original.png)

She pulled herself close, hands pressed against his chest, feeling the waves of heat coming off of his body. If she was human, her skin would be blistering.

"Ruby, what—" he looked down at where she was touching him, scales glistening warmly in the lamp-light. "What's happening to me?"

"You're getting stronger," she said, which was an understatement. Though he was disoriented, shaken from his physical changes, Sam didn't look the least bit tired, and his power had grown exponentially. He'd left brimming with her blood and still full of Samhain's power, stronger than he'd ever been, and killing Alastair should've taken some of that from him, but it hadn't—his soul was pulsing with hellfire, and she wondered for a moment if he'd drunk from Alastair too, before—

"Dean's in the hospital," Sam said. "I was almost too late. But I stopped Alastair—"

"You killed him." She knew the answer, could feel it in him.

"Yeah," he said, "I killed him." He leaned down and pulled her close, lifting her up with his arms so she could wrap her legs around his waist and brought their mouths together in a deep, hungry kiss. Sam walked them further into the room, towards the bed. He dropped her onto the mattress, breathless and smiling, teeth far sharper than they'd been before. "It was easy."

Ruby stripped off her shirt and when he straddled her, started tugging on his own, she helped push it off, feeling the burning heat coming off his skin. The black in his veins had spread far, trailing over the sides of his shoulders, curling around his broad chest. It had reached the border of the anti-possession tattoo and added its own additional layer of protection, a ring of lettering in Hell’s own dialect of Enochian. She traced her finger along it, and Sam shuddered beneath her like his skin was hypersensitive.

"I can feel it, his power," Sam said, "In me. When he died it—I took it from him. I don't know how, but I did, and it—" He sat up, took Ruby's wrist in his still-human-looking one and pulled her hand towards his lower back. “It's _here_."

"Let me see?" she asked, brow furrowing.

Sam nodded and turned, settling back down on the mattress laying on his chest, broad back spread out before her. The blackened veins on his arms spanned both his shoulders, trailing down his transformed arm and covering his upper back. He'd grown more heavily muscled over the last few weeks too, a side effect of his training with her or the blood or both, but there was far more strength in him now than his body hinted at. She could feel it as she ran her hands down the breadth of his sides, the well of energy coiled inside of him, gathered like a maelstrom at the small of his back. There was a second sigil now, next to Azazel's mark, surrounded by a second incomplete circle, Alastair's sigil, new and red, still glowing as its power settled deeper and deeper into Sam. Another lock opened.

"What does it look like?" Sam asked reaching his human hand back to feel the contours of the mark.

"Power," Ruby said, shuddering full body as the sigil tingled beneath her hand, lighting up the blood inside of him, a softly pulsing spiderweb of veins, arteries and capillaries, the darkness glowing hellfire-bright. "It's Alastair's sigil."

"Why him and not any of the others I've killed?" Sam asked, turning to lay on his back. "Why not Samhain?"

"I don't know," Ruby admitted, still hypnotized by his inner light show, black light winding across his chest and up the sides of his neck. "Alastair's rank, maybe? Or what it meant to you to kill him."

"It meant everything," Sam said, voice heavy and satisfied. He reached for her face, tilting her chin up until their eyes met. "It means that I'm finally strong enough."

Ruby nodded, smiling back at him until she noticed his smile fade, replaced by something she knew all too well, a grimace. He was in pain.

Sam's hand dropped, he winced and then keened, bucking up, arching his back.

"Sam?" Ruby asked, alarmed as smoke began to pour off his body, the smell of burning flesh filling the air. "Sam, what's wrong?"

Sam collapsed on his side and she turned him gently onto his back as his eyes rolled back into his head, muscles and teeth clenched against the pain. His thigh was glowing hot, skin bubbling up like someone had scalded it with boiling oil, and there were letters emerging from it, forming in his skin one line at a time, like they were being carved by a blade pushing from the inside out.

He arched his back, crown of his head pushing into the pillow, horns shredding gashes into the fabric as the letters continue to form, one by one, working their way down. Ruby didn't know what to do to lessen the pain, so she held onto his side, to let him know she was there; it was all she could do.

And then as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. The final letter done, the smoke dissipated and Sam fell back onto the mattress, head practically bouncing off the pillow, lids fluttering as he took in deep gulps of air. Tiny downy feathers from the pillow floated down on top of him, charring and shriveling as they hit his skin.

"What—what was that?" he stammered, shaking hand reaching for the fresh wound.

The letters were weeping blood, but when Ruby went to wipe it away it vanished beneath her touch, absorbed back into his skin, highlighting the letters in a deep red that turned as black as the veins trailing up his chest.

Ruby traced her fingers butterfly-light over the new scar-tissue, curving letters trailing up his inner thigh, and read reverently, “King of Kings, Lord of Lords,” then leaned down and kissed her way up gently, one letter at a time, the final letter partially obscured by the soft curling hair framing Sam’s cock.

She slid her mouth over his hardening length and worshipped him wordlessly.

*

In Sam’s mind, three scenes played over and over: Alastair’s dying gasp, Castiel’s widened eyes, and Dean’s battered face in one glorious, hideous loop. Alastair’s power was still working its way through his veins, settling further inside of him with every beat of his heart, echoed like a bass drum in his other body as it grew again, his human skin far too small for his new dimensions and when he looked down at Ruby, he saw her true face looking back at him, sunken eyes locked on him, twisted fanged mouth scraping against his cock but the pain was pleasure—all of it was pleasure—and as the last of Alastair’s power slotted into place, he felt himself crest, fire spilling out of him and into Ruby who swallowed it down like communion wine.

When he brought his hands down to her shoulders, his clawed monstrous one and his other hand still covered in human flesh but changed underneath as well, he understood. He wasn't afraid anymore, wasn't horrified. He was evolving, molting, shedding his skin to make room for what he really was. He pulled Ruby up along his body, his gleaming claws pushing into her skin ever so gently. She looked at him, black eyes no longer empty but full of trust and longing. She tilted her head back, baring her neck, and he leaned into her, inhaling her scent and bit into her flesh, skin parting easily under his sharp teeth. Her blood carried little power for him now but he still loved the taste of it. It flowed free and copious, spilling over his teeth and tongue, hot and electric, and his body responded instantly, his inner self swelling, pushing against his skin until he could feel it start to crack in a few more places.

*

For hours, Sam dreamt a dream of fire, different from before. The heat from Hell didn’t burn him anymore, he burned it, his clawed hands digging directly into the rock, melting it by the handful as he dug his way further down. His shoulders pushed against the edges of the cave walls, and when he flexed them back the walls crumbled to ash, falling away until the whole of Hell opened before him and there at its heart was a cocoon of tubes and wires, softly beeping machines and a hospital bed. Dean was there, pale as the sheets.

Sam stood next to the bed, reaching for his brother, and his hand—his monstrous, clawed paw—covered Dean’s torso, the sharp, glinting claws placed carefully around him, so as not to pierce his flesh.

Dean’s eyes opened, and they were black as pitch and he looked up at Sam and smiled.

*

Sam woke up, drenched in sweat. Ruby lay next to him, black eyes questioning. He rolled onto his side, noting with dampened alarm that the scales on his right arm were now exposed all the way up to his shoulder. He’d shed more skin overnight, which covered the sheets in a fine layer of ash that left red streaks of dried blood in its wake when he brushed his fingers over it.

He brought his human-looking hand up to his transformed arm; the scales were smooth and cooler than the rest of him, like they contained the unending heat at his core in a way that skin never could. Ruby brought her hand next to his, and he turned to look at her. “I look like a monster.”

“You don’t. You’re not,” Ruby said.

“You’re a demon,” Sam said, but without any venom. “I’m human. Or, I used to be.”

“You’re different,” Ruby said. “Unique. Nothing wrong with that.”

“I drink blood and kill demons with my mind.”

“Yeah, you do.” She wrapped her fingers around his scaled ones. “And think of how much good you’ve done with it, how much more good you’re going to do.” She brought his hand up, gently kissing the curved claw of his thumb. “Being human is overrated anyway.”

Sam gave her a weak laugh. The shame had faded somewhat, giving way to more urgent, panic-laden thoughts. “I need to see Dean,” he said. “But when he wakes up, I don’t want—he can’t see me like this.”

Ruby smiled. “I know a few tricks.”

“Figured you did.”

“But I don’t know how long they’ll hold. Especially with Dean. Regular people sure, but Dean’s been to Hell, he’s been the angels’ lab rat. He might see through whatever we do.”

Sam nodded. “Just do your best.”

*

Ruby’s glamour held up well enough when they got to the hospital. The staff and nurses that passed by them as they went down the hall towards Dean’s room paid them no mind. When they got close, Sam couldn’t help reaching out for Dean mentally, for that familiar thrum of his soul. He’d learned what Dean felt like through his dreams and knew that the feeling of Dean’s contours was true even if the dreams hadn’t always been.

So it was with upsetting certainty that he turned down the hall where he’d last seen his brother because he couldn’t sense him. Dean was gone, and when they reached his room his fear was confirmed. The bed was empty. “Where is he?” Sam asked breathless as he staggered further into the room. They hadn’t checked in with the receptionist, hadn’t wanted to push their luck with Sam’s glamour, but now his mind raced, wondering if Dean had been discharged, wondering how long he’d been unconscious himself after killing Alastair. Time was harder to track these days, measured more by kills and blood than the rising and setting of the sun.

He looked at his phone, shaking in his grip, but the date confirmed it had only been one night. Dean couldn’t have healed that quickly. Not without an angel intervening.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice asked, from right behind him.

Sam spun around and his brother was standing by the door, right there, alive and healed. Sam’s heart skipped a beat.

Dean stepped into the room, and they moved towards each other, Sam pulling Dean into a tight hug, not even caring for the moment about whether or not Dean could feel his physical changes. “You’re okay,” Sam said, pulling back from Dean with tears brimming in his eyes.

“I’m fine,” Dean said and his smile was tremulous, thin. “Are you?”

“Yeah, I’m… ,” Sam’s words failed him. He had so much he wanted to tell Dean—about how hard he’d tried with Lilith and the seals and the angels, and the coming apocalypse he was determined to stop. “I’m _sorry_.” He put everything into that word, sorry for not having gotten him out of hell, sorry for not stopping Alastair soon enough, sorry for not getting him away from the angels sooner and for becoming whatever it was he was now.

“So am I,” Dean said.

Castiel appeared beside him. The angel met Sam’s eyes and his expression shifted for a fraction of a second. He could no doubt see through Sam’s disguise and Sam couldn’t judge his reaction enough to know whether it was disgust or fear or something else entirely. 

It didn’t matter though, none of it did, because Castiel had kept his word. “Thank you for healing him,” Sam said, voice cracking with gratitude.

“He didn’t,” said Zachariah flanking Dean’s other side. “I did.”

Ruby backed away from the angels, and Sam stepped defensively in front of her. He wasn’t about to let them take Dean or her.

Castiel and Zachariah vanished, leaving Dean alone staring at Sam with the strangest expression—cold like a razor blade. His arms hung loosely at his sides and his hands were coated with red, dripping onto the hospital room floor.

Wings fluttered next to Sam and before he had a chance to react, Castiel grabbed Sam from behind and Zachariah touched his forehead. The world went dark.

*

“I gotta say, Sammy, I'm impressed.”

Sam blinked his eyes open, still groggy from whatever the angels had done to his brain. “Dean?”

Dean smiled down at him, but it never reached his oil-slick black eyes. “Welcome back.” He held up a thin filet knife, and hooked the curved tip on Sam’s lip.

Struggling to move, Sam realized he couldn’t. His limbs were strapped: wrists, ankles, thighs, and waist tied to a hard metal rack. It shouldn’t have been able to hold him, but the leather bonds were enchanted somehow, the letters engraved in them glowing brighter the more he strained.

“Remember how I traded my life for yours? How I died so you could get another chance?”

Sam nodded as much as he could, chin strapped down by the same leather as the rest of him.

“Yeah, I figured you did considering how you tried to bust me out early.” He clapped his own shoulder right where the handprint scar was and gave Sam a wink. “Thanks for trying.”

Sam’s eyes were tearing, blurring the image of Dean as he brought the knife lower down, letting the curved tip skim down his neck, scraping his Adam’s apple, catching on the outer edge of his collar bone as he brought it down lower, to the tattoo.

“Remember what I said to you, before I died? How I begged you not to use your powers trying to save me.”

“Dean—“

“And then when I do come back, it turns out you went and turned yourself into a grade-A monster.” Dean reached above Sam’s head and grabbed hold of one Sam’s horns, pulling down on it hard until it broke with a sickening crack of bone. The pain shot from the crown of Sam’s head all the way down his spine and his cries devolved into a roar as his power flared to life, fire pouring from his mouth, he bucked up hard, the straps around his midsection and jaw snapping, unable to hold him down completely.

“Whoa, nelly!” Dean said with a chuckle, narrowly dodging the jet of flame.

Sam fell back against the rack, exhausted, the pain ebbing, settling near his head again where he could feel the horn regrowing.

“And for what?” Dean continued. “Why did you do this to yourself?”

“To save you,” Sam said.

“Bang up job there,” Dean said, bringing the knife back down, he hooked the tip down into Sam’s skin, right above his heart and with a skilled twist of his wrist drew a perfect circle around the tattoo, then slid the thinnest edge of the blade underneath, peeling the skin off in one quick slice.

Sam wouldn’t scream, wouldn’t give Dean the satisfaction, or risk releasing that terrible fire again, so instead, he bit into his lip hard until he could feel it split. He’d forgotten how sharp his teeth had become.

“I can’t be saved, Sam. Couldn’t be then, don’t want to be now.” He wiped the filet knife against his apron and set it down on the shelf behind him, picking up a different, larger knife. He pulled it against the leather strop that hung from his belt, making the blade sing with a soft whistle—a sound that used to be familiar and in its own way comforting to Sam. It brought no comfort now.

“Doesn’t mean I won’t keep trying,” Sam said.

“That’s probably part of the plan too. The more you try, the further you fall,” Dean held up the blade, testing the tip with his thumb. A drop of blood welled up. His eyes slid over to Sam and he brought his bleeding thumb down to Sam’s mouth, shoving it in.

Dean’s blood mingled with Sam’s own and hit his tongue with a familiar tingle. Dean tasted like a demon. Sam had to exert a Herculean amount of willpower to not pull the thumb further in and suckle and coax more out of the wound. Instead, he stayed as still as possible as Dean continued his monologue.

“It’s _all_ part of the plan, you get that right?” Dean pulled his thumb back out. “All these angels, all these demons, they all want to kickstart the Apocalypse, they’re just betting on different horses. But your buddies Ruby and Uriel? They’re not helping you stop it. They’re just molding you. Zach and Cas are doing the same thing with me. Either way, there’s only two seals left, and then it’s showtime.”

Dean’s voice sounded muffled to Sam, who was still fully focused on the taste of the blood in his mouth. It was demon blood, but it was Dean’s too, and that familiar sense of him grew stronger the more Sam focused on it. He brought it sharper into focus as his body absorbed it, extracting the demonic power he took from every mouthful of demon blood. Months of practicing with Ruby had taught him how, and he shut out the pain, shut out the bite of the knife blade as Dean cut into him again, concentrating instead on Dean—reaching for his demonic core the same way he’d reached for Alastair. This time the fire didn’t burst from him so much as come out in a controlled stream, a metaphysical siphon, that thrust into Dean’s chest, sending hungry tendrils out into his blood, pulling at everything demonic.

Dean’s knife clattered to the ground and he gave an abortive cry before going completely rigid as Sam’s power kept drinking down Dean’s. The last bit of it ricocheted before the tension broke and snapped back into Sam, severing their connection. Dean crumpled to the ground, blood-splattered but human. Sam had saved him. That thought gave him comfort for a few brief moments before the room filled with a blinding light and three angels appeared, Uriel, who stood by Sam’s side, with Zachariah and Castiel flanking Dean’s fallen form.

“I told you this wouldn’t work,” Castiel said to Zachariah.

“What do you mean?” Zachariah huffed a laugh. “It went better than expected. We got exactly what we wanted. Dean’s been purified on a cellular level, and Sam’s so tainted he can’t ever come back from it. Everything’s going exactly according to plan.”

Sam wanted to protest, tried to sit up to do just that, but his body was on fire again, the exposed muscle where his tattoo had been forming new skin, embedded with a whole new sigil. His eyes rolled back into his head and he cried out despite himself, as the words dug themselves out, the echo of Dean’s filet knife threading the letters in and out like stitches. When the pain finally receded the new tattoo was no longer a pentacle but a serpent, coiled in on itself in the symbol of infinity. An ouroboros, surrounded by a ring of the same script, the same lettering that had formed on his thigh. His back was one of the few parts of him that didn’t hurt, much to Sam’s surprise, though he still couldn’t reach it, even if he wanted to, limbs still strapped down.

Uriel, silent until now, reached for Sam, and his touch felt like ice, soothing and cool. “Don’t worry, I won’t let them take you.”

“Please,” Zachariah scoffed. “I wouldn’t touch that rotted thing with a ten-foot pole. We got what we came for.” He nudged Dean’s unconscious form with his foot and the three of them vanished, Castiel giving one last look to Sam, less of a challenge, more of an apology.

“All clear,” Uriel said, and the air by Sam’s feet rippled. Ruby appeared, eyes flicking up to Sam for a fraction of a second before she set to work unstrapping him. She hissed when she touched the leather, clutching at her hand, which came away burned and blistered.

“You were told not to touch them,” Uriel said, with a sigh. He flicked his fingers and the straps unbuckled themselves.

Ruby reached for Sam, helped him sit, leaning in gingerly to embrace him. Sam instinctively bent into her touch, inhaling her scent and it was only when she stroked his newly grown horn that he remembered Dean’s words. “Is it true?” he asked. “What Dean said?”

Ruby’s eyes widened, and Uriel crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you going to tell us what you’re referring to, or should I pull the thoughts from your mind?” he asked.

Sam turned to Uriel. “He said that all of you want the Apocalypse. That you’ve been manipulating both of us.”

“Up until a few minutes ago, your brother was a demon. You trust what he said?”

Sam huffed bitterly. “I trusted Ruby.”

Ruby took Sam’s hand, and though he wanted to pull away, he didn’t. “It’s true,” Ruby said. “Or it was.”

Uriel glared at Ruby, eyebrow arched.

“The Apocalypse is coming. When you kill Lilith, Lucifer will be free.”

“But you said—“ Sam stammered, heart hammering in his chest “All this time, everything I’ve done to myself, it was so I could kill her and stop the Apocalypse.”

“No matter what you do,” Ruby said, and were those tears in her eyes? “Lilith will die. Lucifer will rise. What matters is what happens after.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“Everything we’ve done has been to make you ready for him,” Uriel said, still looking at Ruby like his mistrust of her had grown. “You have been tailored to fit for Lucifer.”

“No,” Sam said, gut lurching. “No, I won’t.”

“With you as his vessel, Lucifer will crush the Host of Heaven easily. The Apocalypse will be brief. Painless.” Uriel smiled slowly. “Like a surgical excision.”

“But it’s still the Apocalypse,” Sam said. “How many people are going to die because of it?”

“Do you know what Apocalypse means, Sam?” Ruby asked. “What the word means?”

“It means revelation,” Uriel finished. “That’s what Lucifer is doing, that’s what he’s always done. He shines a light on the flaws in God’s design, lifts the veil, revealing the truth of things.” Uriel’s voice grew softer, reverent. “He will raze the mistakes from this world and rebuild it as paradise."

“Razing the world sounds like mass death to me,” Sam said, “and I want no part of that.”

“Sam—“ Ruby started. Sam looked at her, and in her eyes he saw the weight of what she couldn’t say out loud, what she couldn’t even think without Uriel overhearing. She plastered a smile back on her face, giving Sam’s hand one last squeeze. “When the time comes, you’ll make the right choice. I know you will.”

Uriel’s smile grew wider. “Yes, you will. Now let’s get out of here before my misguided brethren come back for us.”

This time when the room filled with light, Sam didn’t shy away from it, he let it carry him away, still holding Ruby’s hand.

*

"Let me out!" Dean shouted for what felt like the thousandth time. He pounded his fists futilely against the white walls of the gilded waiting room the angels had stuck him in. His head was finally clear again. Whatever Sam had done to him had knocked him out but when he’d woken up the black-tinted haze was gone from his eyes. He could see clearly again, and he remembered—he remembered all of it. Lilith, the hounds, Hell, Alastair's blades and how different they felt when they became his own, Sam breaking down the door, grabbing Dean, pulling him away from his rack and the angels interfering. He remembered them yanking memories from his mind, throwing him back in a facsimile of Hell—it had seemed so real, picking up the blade again and again at their behest, they'd fed him souls, pushed him further on the road Alastair had set him on so they could use him.

And then they gave him Sam. He'd tortured his own brother, Sam who'd started literallyshedding his humanity, in a misguided attempt to save Dean and stop the angels' plans. Dean had accepted ages ago that they couldn't be stopped, that the Apocalypse was inevitable—but now that he had his own mind back again and was free of their influence, he realized that had all been part of their manipulation too. It wasn't inevitable. He and Sam could stop it. They were the lynchpins to the whole damn thing. What they did could sway the tide towards Heaven or Hell and if they refused to play their parts the way they'd been scripted, then maybe they could keep all of it from happening in the first place.

But first he had to get the hell out of here. He ran his fingers along the seams of the wallpaper again, hoping stupidly for some kind of hidden release button. Anything to get him out of this elaborate hamster-ball jail cell.

“You’re not a prisoner,” Castiel said, appearing next to him.

“Stop doing that!” Dean snapped.

“Doing what?”

“Nevermind.” If the angel hadn’t grasped by now why appearing out of nowhere with no warning was annoying, what was the point of trying to explain it. “Fine, so if I'm not a prisoner, then let me out.”

“We will, when the time is right.”

“We? What’s this we crap? I’m not asking you and your divisional manager or whatever the hell Zach is, I’m asking you.”

“I have my orders," Castiel said, averting his eyes.

"Well, you can take your orders, and stick 'em where the sun don't shine," Dean said, voice low. He'd had it with these angels.

"Didn't anybody ever teach you to be polite to your Hosts?" Zachariah said, appearing with a shit-eating grin.

"No, can't say anyone did," Dean said. "You gonna let me out?"

"Yes, when it's time, which it will be in, oh..." Zachariah looked at his wrist like he was wearing a watch, "not long at all now. Your brother's about to crack open the gate."

"So let me stop him."

"That's the plan. He kills Lilith, you kill Sam, before Lucifer can take him."

"I'm not killing my brother."

"You won't have a choice."

*

**_19:19 And I saw the beast, and the kings of the earth, and their armies, gathered together to make war_ **

Lilith was waiting for them. Uriel and Ruby had brought Sam to an empty cabin somewhere not far away from the chapel housing the gate to Lucifer's cage. Sam felt like he should be at a crossroads, but instead, all he had was a knot of different paths that ran together into one inevitable destination. No matter what he did, it would lead him to her. And he did want to kill her, his power coiled in his scaled arm, like it too knew vengeance was coming.

"To take Lilith on, you're going to need all the strength you can get," Ruby said, reaching for the blade in her boot.

"He's plenty strong," Uriel said, scoffing.

"No, Ruby's right," Sam said. "She'll have dozens of guards; she'll be ready for us."

"Fine," Uriel turned away from them. "But I'm not going to watch this, I'll make some last-minute preparations and meet you in front of the chapel." He vanished in a flutter of wings, and then they were alone.

Ruby held the knife out to Sam. "Whatever happens, I want you to know that I believe in you."

Sam took the knife, eyes locked with hers, probing at her thoughts and his gut lurched at what he saw there, confirming his worst fears. "You do. But you want me to raise Lucifer, you want the Apocalypse just like everybody else." Sam turned the blade in his hand, considering, he could kill her now, and then go after Lilith. Uriel was right, he was plenty strong. But Ruby did mean something to him, she had since the night she'd stopped him from being killed. Her betrayal _hurt_.

Ruby nodded. "I did. I've prayed to Lucifer for centuries. I want him free. But I care about you more." She brought her free hand up to Sam's cheek, carefully, like he was going to bat it away. He didn't.

"You're not like I thought you'd be. You're so much more. You made me remember what it's like to fight against things greater than you, to sacrifice parts of yourself and become what you need to be in order to survive. I know what that's like. So, whatever path you choose, I'll follow it."

He nodded and wished he could believe her. After one more deep breath, he pushed the knife tip into her wrist, watched the red bead up, tiny teardrops of power, and latched on.

*

The chapel looked harmless from the outside, but Sam could feel the ancient evil emanating from it the moment they got close. With each step nearer he could feel more of Lilith's power, and in the periphery whatever magics held Lucifer at bay: a whispering voice, ancient cruel and eager beckoned him closer, promised him everything— _anything you want, forever and ever, the world, the whole world, just release me..._

“Sam,” Uriel snapped. “Stay focused. Lilith can and will kill you given the chance, and then all of this will be for nothing.”

Sam stared at the angel, at his shifting metal feathers, the unflinching eyes. Even this was a half-truth, he figured. Nobody was giving him the full story, but he’d pieced enough together to know that killing Lilith was something only he could do.

“I will remain here, and smite any that threaten to interfere,” Uriel said solemnly.

“Because you’re too scared to go inside?” Ruby asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Because I cannot be seen sullying my hands with such things,” Uriel said. “But you,” he smiled, slowly, leaning in closer to Ruby, “you’re already thoroughly sullied, aren’t you?”

Ruby gave him an icy smile, then turned her back on him and followed Sam into the chapel. They found ten demon guards waiting for them. Sam killed them with a thought, without ever breaking stride.

He expected the guards. He expected the pulsing feeling of Hell that grew louder and more insistent with every step. He expected resistance, the sealed door, which he broke with a sharp thrust of will, shattering it into splinters. What he didn’t expect was to find Dean on his knees, with Lilith behind him, her hand on his head. Her power had locked him into a kneeling position, head bowed, like he was a willing sacrifice.

“Dean,” Sam said, and his brother moved, or tried to—his head twitched just enough to make it clear he’d heard Sam, but couldn’t lift his head to look up. Sam felt no shame as his power spiked, horns pushing further out of his head, scales blistering up across his chest. All he felt was fear for Dean and the purest rage he’d ever known.

"Sam.” Lilith smiled as she ran her fingers over Dean's throat. "You couldn’t save Dean last time I came for him, what makes you think this time will be any different?”

Sam shrugged off his jacket, revealing his transformed arm and saw Lilith’s eyes widen.

“Is that supposed to scare me?” she asked with a laugh. “Maybe you forgot who I am. I am Lucifer’s first. Mother of demons. I’ve spit out scarier things than you.”

“Let him go,” Sam said, letting his power build and wind slowly down his arm.

“We weren't done playing with Dean yet when you interrupted. And then you went and undid all our hard work." She shook her head, mouth downturned in a mockery of a pout for just a moment. "But that's okay. We'll just start all over."

She raised her chin, her eyes went white, and the distant sound of bellowing hounds filled the chapel.

Ruby stepped closer to Sam, eyes darting from corner to corner as the hellhounds manifested and immediately turned their slavering maws towards Dean. They were only partly visible to Sam, like the essence of angels and demons, but he barely spared them a glance, focused only on Dean. This is what Uriel had meant then. No matter what Sam did, Heaven and Hell would force his hand and make sure he killed Lilith.

Sam’s power exploded out of him, and he felt his inner self lash out, grabbing hold of all of the hellhounds, snapping two in half, slamming one against the ceiling, shattering it, and crushing the last to dust. Their Hellish cores drifted towards him through the air in black and red strands, burrowing into Sam, weaving their way towards his heart to merge with the rest of his power. Sam took a deep, shuddering breath that came out as a qualm of smoke.

“Impressive,” Lilith said with a chuckle. “Why don’t I call the rest of the pack so you can show me what you can really do?”

“No,” Sam said and grabbed hold of Lilith. She instantly lost hold of Dean, who fell forward with a gasp and narrowly kept his chin from smashing against the hard stone of the chapel floor.

“Sam?” Dean panted, pushing himself to standing.

But Sam couldn’t spare a glance at Dean, his whole focus on Lilith. He squeezed at the cloud of smoke and darkness within her until it began to smolder and burn, gold sparks coming from her eyes as his power consumed her. She cried out, voice echoing from the nave. Sam pushed harder until he felt her being crack and then shatter. The backlash of her death funneling into him sent him to his knees.

Lilith's empty shell fell to the floor, and her power sank deeper into Sam as he absorbed it, coalescing in his lower back, curling tight around his spine, slotting into the empty space between Azazel's mark and Alastair's.

*

**_13 And it performed great signs, even causing fire to come down from heaven to the earth in full view of the people_ **

Lucifer was coming, his cage had cracked, _God_ was coming. Uriel could feel him breaching the veil between Hell and Earth. Soon, very soon he would be here.

And Sam was ready to receive Him, his full potential unlocked.

The faithful, those who had never stopped believing in Lucifer felt it as surely as Uriel did and were convening around the chapel, drawn by His return. Hundreds of demons, dozens of angels, arriving one after the other.

“Do you feel them, Sam?” Uriel asked, manifesting by Sam's side as dozens more faithful appeared outside the chapel walls. “Your army, ready for your command.”

“For _Lucifer’s_ command,” Sam said, through clenched teeth. He was angry. Good. Lucifer knew anger.

“You are his right hand, they will obey you as surely as they do him. Just give them an order. Make them ready for the coming of our God.”

Sam considered for a moment and then nodded at Uriel, focusing inwards. Uriel smiled as he felt Sam’s power build, so much greater than what they’d anticipated. He would be a glorious vessel indeed.

The power clogging the air became brighter, bright as Heaven, bright as Hell, and Sam raised his arm, his hand of power pointed right at the sky, a challenge to Heaven, like he was giving them one last chance to strike him down.

They didn’t, of course.

Power burst out of Sam in a stream of red, yellow and white. It shattered the roof above them, obliterating the old stone and shot higher with a thunderclap that echoed up and up, reaching nearly to the nadir of Heaven’s domain. The clouds that had been drifting across the night sky evaporated, until above them was a tapestry of stars that all seemed to be falling, not stars though, meteorites, each of them imbued with Sam’s power, building momentum as they hurtled down, faster and faster.

The demons and angels assembled outside looked up, marveling at the display, like they were watching a display of fireworks. Only when the first demon was struck and obliterated did Uriel understand what it actually was.

“Retreat!” he bellowed, unleashing a wave of his own power to knock as many of the soldiers out of the way as he could, but he couldn’t reach them all. Though they weren’t yet fully joined, Sam’s power was already amplified by Lucifer’s proximity and Uriel’s counterpunch hit a wall. The two dozen angels that had assembled were moving, trying to flee, but their efforts were as ineffective as Uriel’s. They moved as though trapped in a tar pit, limbs held back as the meteors struck one by one. Anakiel had a hole in his chest, Raziel’s whole left half was missing including most of his jaw, and three others had been completely pulverized, just as swiftly as the demons. The onslaught of fire from the sky continued until every demon and angel assembled was gone.

Uriel walked through the rubble, looking out at the pockmarked, smoldering asphalt in awed horror.

And Sam, in the ruins of the chapel, fell to his knees, as a barrage of light, grace, and Hell-twisted souls arced from the destroyed horde, through the air, funneling into Sam.

*

Dean nearly lost his balance as what was left of the chapel floor shook and quivered. A stream of blood poured from Lilith’s mouth, forming a circle, a whirlpool. The floor shuddered harder and cracked open. The air filled with bright light and the stink of ozone; Zachariah and Castiel appeared.

Zachariah threw Dean an angel sword, and Dean caught it, shocked by how light it felt in his hand.

The light below the chapel floor grew stronger, bursting through the widening cracks in the stone. Lucifer was coming, and Sam had set him free. Sam who was suffering, who was in more pain than Dean had ever seen him, writhing on the floor, eyes rolled back in his head. Dean dropped to his knees by Sam's side, let the angel blade clatter to the floor beside him.

"Dean, now!" Zachariah shouted. Dean ignored him. The light pushing at the floor was a tangible thing, making the air thick and cloying. Dean turned to see Zachariah running towards him but he froze mid-step—Ruby's mouth was open, shouting soundlessly, and the angels were all stuck, frozen in time as this one eternal moment moved only for him and for Sam. Dean turned his attention back to his brother, who'd stopped convulsing, skin paper-white pale except for where thick black veins had started crawling up the sides of his cheek from where they appeared under the collar of his shirt. Dean pulled at the sides of the shirt and ripped it open, buttons flying left and right to see how bad the damage was, and it was so much worse than he'd thought. Sam's whole body was flooded with darkness, the veins blackened up through his fingertips, they pulsed and moved in time with Sam's racing heart, his breaths came fast and gasping, a pained staccato.

"Dean," Sam panted, clutching ineffectively at the air with both hands.

"I'm here, Sammy," Dean said, "Tell me what to do."

"The sword, the angel sword—" Sam's eyes focused on Dean for a beat, bleeding full black and then shifting from hazel to pale blue to white to yellow. "You have to kill me."

"What?" Dean's mouth went bone dry. "No."

"Dean, you have to. It's the only way to stop this. The angels were right."

Dean shook his head. "No, they weren't. They played both of us."

Sam nodded sloppily, his coordination gone. "Yeah, they did, but now we have to finish it."

"Me killing you isn't going to finish anything. Lucifer's free."

"Not yet he isn't. He needs me, and if you kill me, he won't have his vessel anymore."

"Sam, I can't—"

Sam grabbed Dean's hand, grip vice-like, white-knuckled. "Do it! Now. I can't hold them off much longer."

And out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Zachariah moving again, slowly, stuck in gelatin, but moving. Just before the angel could grab it, Dean snatched the blade and before he could think better of it, brought it straight down into Sam's chest.

The world around them unfroze, the floor opened with a deafening crack and light exploded up around them, as Sam arched into the blade, light spilling through his eyes and mouth and skin, his dark veins gone photo-negative, glowing with light as bright as what was spilling out of the earth. Then he fell to the floor, deathly still, eyes open, empty and human, looking at Dean not with betrayal but with gratitude.

Dean reached for Sam to close his eyes, to spare him that much, but was thrown back, an invisible shockwave thrusting him through the air. He collided with the wall, collapsing to the ground next to Ruby who turned to him in horror, tears streaming down her cheeks. "What have you done?" she asked.

Dean shook his head. "He begged me to."

*

Sam was freezing. His body was stiff, rigid and ungiving and he couldn't move he couldn't move. Dean was there, Dean had stopped it, stopped him and it should be over but it wasn't. He was still here, wherever here was but he couldn't see Dean, couldn't see Ruby or Uriel or any of the others. He could smell them though—their blood, the sulfur and grace stench in the air.

From the void came a voice that Sam knew but didn't, ancient and eager saying, _"Free. I'm free. Soon we'll be one. Soon you'll be mine. Say yes to me."_

And the ice in Sam spread further, crawling up his spine and creeping across his brain in fits and bursts, growing thorny vines that wove themselves into his grey matter. _"No,"_ he thought, with every bit of his will. _"No. I won't."_

The void grew red with fury and the ice in Sam receded, chased away by his own heat which returned as his heart began to beat again, thump, thump, thump.

*

**_13:2 Now the beast that I saw was like a leopard, but its feet were like a bear’s, and its mouth was like a lion’s mouth_ **

Ruby turned her focus back on Sam who was moving again—who had somehow, impossibly, pushed himself onto his hands and knees. His clothing burned away, fabric incinerated as his whole body lit up. The latticework of his veins glowed black once more, starkly contrasted to the blinding light clogging the room, and as she watched, those veins swelled, growing thicker, up and out of Sam's body until they peeled off of him, lifting off his shoulders, rising up from his back in a framework made of shadow and sinew—hollow wings that unfolded as she watched, growing larger until they spanned nearly from one wall to the other. The light in the air faded, siphoned into the wings, as they grew full and heavy.

Sam moaned and clutched at the sword in his chest which crumbled away in his grip and when he set his hand back on the ground it was clawed and massive, his arm becoming thicker, muscles swelling grotesquely. His body undulated, bones cracking and splintering as they broke and reformed into a wholly new configuration. She could barely track what was happening because it all moved so fast but in the span of a few seconds, Sam's transformation had finished and he didn't resemble anything remotely human. The Beast stood before her, with a lion's maw, claws the size of daggers and a crown of flame hovering over his head. His wings were cramped inside the chapel, his back brushing the ceiling and he let out a roar, flexing those wings, and knocked down the remains of the walls.

What was left of the chapel collapsed as the column of light from below broke free and shot up into the night. The Beast shook off the rubble like dust and turned his attention towards the light bursting out of the chasm in the chapel floor.

"Lucifer," Ruby mouthed, recognizing the form of her God, her maker, in the light. And she felt an intense sorrow. Lucifer's rising is what she'd worked towards this whole time, but at the cost of Sam. And if she was honest with herself, and why shouldn't she be, Sam's loss was far more painful to her than she'd thought it would be.

The Beast leapt towards the light, towards Lucifer, and caught the glowing being in his mighty jaw, shaking it roughly like a great cat with a mouse. With one of his paws, he yanked the archangel out and pinned it beneath his claws. Lucifer struggled and fought, roaring nearly as loudly as the Beast itself until with one deafening crack, the Beast leaned down and snapped off its head. The Fallen Angel's grace exploded into finely shimmering dust, raining upside-down, each drop of light drifting heavenwards. The Beast turned his massive head towards Ruby, the weight of his gaze resting on her and Dean for a long quiet moment, then leapt into the open chasm in the ground.

The floor sealed shut behind them, the blinding light flicked off like a switch had turned off the sun and on the floor where the rift in the worlds had been, a new sigil had formed. Ruby crawled towards it on her hands and knees, tears streaming down her eyes and she traced her finger over the edge of it reading, _Samael, the Beast._


End file.
